Have you ever listened closely to a trickling stream? It’s like a far off conversation between lovers: hushed voices careening together, composing an intimate whisper. It tells the secret pleasures and agonies of love.
Every rock and pocket produce the sound of perseverance. The lullaby of carrying on — moving on through. Obstacles only make it sing louder and clearer. It’s mission: find the lowest place, as water always does — as love always does. A race to the bottom, undeterred by all that lies in its path. And the falls are breathtaking, as it abandons itself to rush to love’s end. Yet, that’s really just the beginning of it all — the pooling of what’s poured out.
Maybe the drifting leaves are simply confetti — a show of support and cheer. Maybe they just want to be in it, this flow and show of devotion. They are often carried away, deposited along the banks of the story. Maybe they’re giving up themselves, too, just to be a witness to. Maybe they’ve fallen in love with love. It’s easy to understand how, with its hypnotic lull. Don’t we all want to give ourselves to the sweeping notions of love? My morning meandering would suggest so for me.